


you brought me out from the cold (now how i long to grow old)

by akosmia



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, spoilers for episode s08e03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 17:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18674317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akosmia/pseuds/akosmia
Summary: Sansa's mouth curves in a tender smile, and she breathes deeply and squeezes his hand, steeling herself again. "He's okay. We won, Theon. We won," she says, and he finally, after what it feels like a lifetime, he breathes out.It hurts, and it feels like every nerve of his body is being lit on fire, but he breathes out all the same because Bran's alive and the night is over and they won, because it was desperate and foolish and absurd to hope, and yet, despite it all something incredible happened, and they're here, in this silent room, breathing and living, and it should be impossible but somehow it's not.-- or: Theon lives to heal himself, after all.





	you brought me out from the cold (now how i long to grow old)

**Author's Note:**

> listen, theon's final scene was beautiful, but ... hear me out, what if a redemption arc doesn't end in death? yes, this is basically my fix-it fic for episode three, there's literally no other excuse for this except for the fact that i'm sad. also probably the fic will sound all too modern, but as usual, i have only two braincells and they are currently mourning theon, so im sorry?

At first, he thinks he's dead.

Between the excruciating pain firmly gripping every nerve of his body like he used to grip his bow and the darkness breathing into him like a second pulse, he thinks this is the punishment the Gods have fashioned for him, for the sins he has committed and he won't ever atone for. He's never been much of a believer - the Starks worshipped the Old Gods and Pyke honored the Drowned God, but he always felt rejected by both, too much of a Greyjoy to feel at home in the Godswood, too much of a wolf to let the water claim him quietly.

Still, as the pain gets stronger and the darkness gets bigger, he thinks if he's earned anything in his short, regretful life, then it would be this, if nothing else - this long, eternal night made of sorrow and pain, in which the only living thing is the memory of all his mistakes.

He can taste salt water on his lips, and he doesn't know if it's a memory or an hallucination, or just the Drowned God who's coming to claim him after all. _I_ _shouldn't have died so far from the sea_ , he thinks, _Yara will be so mad at me._ Then, another voice breaks through the burning haze of pain - a voice both solemn and familiar, young like a kid's and ancient as the world at the same time. _Everything you did brought you where you are now, where you belong_ , it says, so softly he can barely hear it, _Home_.

He can see the Godswood in his memory - the one he remembers from his childhood, and the one he's seen before falling, lit up by flames, littered with dead bodies. Sometimes the two images overlap.

It shouldn't hurt this much, dying.

But he can still feel salt water on his mouth and on his cheeks, and it feels less like drowning and more like rain - and then, warm hands are on his face, fingers both firm and gentle, and a voice whispers, as softly as the first snowflakes, "Theon".

He knows that voice, he realizes, his soul trembling within the darkness. It reminds him of another moment - of the same hands cupping his face, the same voice laced with the same desperation, murmuring the same word. _Theon_ , _you are Theon Greyjoy_ , she said back then, frantic and terrified and still so stubborn, so incredibly determined, gifting him his name again and pulling him back from the darkness of his own mind. His heart jumps and his body aches to reach out for her, to cover her hands with his own, to tell her not to worry about him too much because he's earned this, but he can't feel his arms at all.

"Please, Theon," she whispers, again.

_Sansa_ , he thinks, _her name is Sansa._

He's learned to recognize her voice above anything else in the world - he'd hear it above the thunder, above the roaring of the sea, above the clamor of a battle, above the end of the world. He can feel the fear, the desperation, the sorrow in her words, in her shaky breaths - even in the way her hands grasp his face. It's the worst kind of punishment, he thinks, to hear her cry like this and not be able to do anything. If this is his personal hell, then the Gods - whoever is listening right now - must be really angry with him.  

Another voice cuts in - older, almost weary. "My lady, he's-"

"He's _not_." She says it with the same fierce, determined tone she always uses - the command of a queen in a song of old. The stuff of legends and stories, she is, so ready to make the impossible happen. He can hear the effort it takes her to steel herself and he can almost _see_ her - wiping away her tears, clenching her jaw, staring at him with the same unyielding gaze he's learned to love. "Do anything you can, Maester".

There's a sigh, and hesitant words ushered in the darkness, almost a whisper against the night, "He may not survive the night".

Sansa tightens her hold on him, her hands cupping his face. He wishes he could open his eyes and see her, find a way to tell her that everything is going to be okay, that he's never been worth much anyway and she doesn't have to mourn him, because he deserved everything he got.

"He will," she replies, and he can hear them both - hope and desperation, her broken voice and the fierceness of her unbreakable heart. "He's not been dismissed yet".

He wants to laugh - leave it to Sansa to think that, even now at the end of the world, everyone will do as she says, just because she wills it so. It reminds him of a different time - of a different Winterfell, when they were kids together and Sansa was just a child who wanted to be a princess like in the songs she loved so much. She ordered him around with the same grace and ease she did everything else with, and he'd tease just because he could, because life was a song back then, and the world full of promises.

What comes next is a blur. The darkness seems to grow bigger, the pain spreads through his whole body like a plague, like fire, like a memory that he doesn't know how to erase, and then -

\- Sansa grasp his hands. Her fingers curl around his and her thumb strokes his skin, and he can feel the way her hand trembles, shaky fingertips brushing against his, but he can also feel her steady heartbeat, a tide that finally washes over him and pulls him under, and then he's gone.

*

The darkness recedes for a moment, from time to time, and he dreams.

He dreams of Yara, standing on the deck of their ship, her eyes full of a sadness so big it seems to devour everything else. And still, her hand clasps his arm so firmly, and her fingers dig into his skin, and though he can read her fear and her sorrow on her face, she doesn't hesitate, not even for a minute. She's always been strong, stronger than him, a Queen made of salt, risen out of the sea to rule over the Iron Island. _What is dead may never die_ , she says, as if whispering a spell for protection. _But I did_ , Theon thinks, _I died._

He dreams of Bran, whispering something so softly he can't make out the words. He's on his chair, sitting under the tree, and he's looking at Theon with sad, pensive eyes that seem to carve a hole in his soul. Theon knows that feeling all too well, doesn't he? But this time it's gentler - it surprises him to realize Bran doesn't want to hurt him, despite it all. _What happened to you_ , Theon wants to ask him, _after I destroyed your home and your life? What happened to you after I died? I am so sorry, I am so sorry I couldn't stop him, I'm sorry I let you die alone out there_.

Bran's lips move, but he can't hear a word he says. He wonders if he's cursing him. He'd deserve it.

He dreams of Sansa, too. It surprises him - he thought himself unworthy of even a vision of her long, flaming hair and fair skin. In his dreams, she's not the fierce, unshakable woman he's met before the battle - the one who has looked at him above her soup with the faint trace of a smile on her lips, her gaze limpid, her fears in checks even in the most desperate moment. _You come back to me_ , she had said, with the voice of someone who wouldn't accept a no for an answer, and he had believed her despite it all, because if life has proved him one thing, then it's that Sansa Stark can make impossible things happen.

(And she doesn't need magic or dragons or training and that's why he loves her so much - because she has endured and endured and endured and she's not broken like him, pieces of glass scraped together in a human form, but she's _reborn,_ fiercer and stronger and able to turn hopeless cases like him into heroes.)

This Sansa, though - she is scared and terrified and does nothing to hide it. She's perched on a chair, her whole body folded on itself as she hugs her knees, her knuckles white from the effort of holding herself together. Her pretty dress is full of creases, and he wonders how long she's been standing like that for. The light of a candle dances on her face, illuminating the dark circles under her eyes. Were this another time - another lifetime, one in which no one ever left Winterfell, and nothing ever happened - he'd tease her. _A proper lady would not sit like this_ , he'd tell her, and she'd laugh at him, and they'd be so stupidly, mindlessly happy.

But in this lifetime, he doesn't tease her, and she doesn't laugh. She tries her best to stifle her sobs, stubbornly holding back her tears despite it all, even as the world burns, and he loves her so much it feels like his body is not enough to contain it - he wants to embrace her, wrap his arms around her and wipe the tears from her face, but when he tries to move, his arms are nowhere to be found. _I'm so sorry_ , he wants to tell her, _I tried to come back, I swear. I would have come back for you. Don't cry, please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry._

It feels like being sorry is the only thing he manages to do these days.

Sansa gasps and launches herself at him, but just as soon her hand finds his, the darkness claims him again.

*

The pain cuts through everything, and that's what wakes him in the end.

He jolts awake, his hands flying at his abdomen as if to assess his wounds, and his breath comes in shallow pants as he gasps for air. The darkness is all around him, seeping into his bones, and he doesn't know where he is, what is happening to him, why it hurts so bad. It feels like everything is on fire, and yet the darkness is a cloak, heaving on him, and he can't breath and he should be _dead_ , why he isn't dead, why he's still alive, why the Gods would ever spare him just to let him suffocate like this-

"Theon!" Her voice is louder than the fear, louder than panic and pain and darkness, and when her hands close around his, even the night seem to retreat. The faint light of a candle shines around them, and as his eyes finally grow accustomed to it, he can finally see her, wide eyes and parted lips, and utter, terrible joy on her face, mixed with relief. "Please, please, don't move, you need to rest".

She's trying so hard to fight back the tears, he notices, and he loves her, loves her, loves her and he never expected to see her ever again. He wants to cry, he wants to scream, he wants to curl up in her lap and tell her everything, but his body feels like it belongs to someone else, and it doesn't matter anyway - he knows she knows by the way she looks at him, kind eyes and tremulous smile.

She helps him up, warm hands gripping his arms, and it's only when he finds himself slumped against a pile of cushions that he realizes he's sitting in a bed.

He swallows. "Sansa," he says. He hasn't called her that in a lifetime, he thinks, unworthy of the privilege of her name, but it's is the only thing he seems able to utter right now, the only thing that makes sense, above pain and darkness. His voice is hoarse, and Sansa jolts, her hand coming to rest on his almost out of its own accord, and he knows he's not worth of it, he knows he should pull away, but he can't help but curl his fingers around hers. She's so warm and soft and _alive,_ and he can't force himself to let her go, not now, not ever. "Where am I?"

She sits beside him on the bed, and her hair catches the light of the candle. It reminds him of a fire - not the destruction the dragons seem to bring, but the familiarity and the warmth of a fireplace. She looks like a goddess, bathed in this golden light, and he'd give his life for her over and over again, a faithful worshipper, a knight of old kneeling in front of his queen.

Her lips trembles, when she speaks  and she comes to brush a few curls away from his face, so gently, as if not to startle him.

"Home," she replies, simply, but it feels like their whole lives are poured into that word - all that fighting and struggling and suffering, to finally come back home. "You're home. At Winterfell. Please, please, don't move too much, you're still hurt".

His free hand comes to brush against the place where, he remembers it now, the Night King has stabbed him, his sword cutting through him like icy water in his lungs. The excruciating pain, his body crumbling in the snow, his red blood against the white, immaculate ground, and the eerie silence of it all. He'd not been afraid of dying, but it had hurt all the same.

His gaze falls on Sansa again. "What happened?" he manages to ask, his voice trembling slightly. "How am I still alive?"

Her hand tightens its hold on his, and it almost feels like she's trying to scare death off, to reach him before death can do just the same. It makes him smile, despite it all, because of course she would - because Sansa Stark would look Death in the face and tell it, politely as always, _No_ , just by pure stubbornness. And she'd win, because of course she would.

She breathes deeply, before replying, her shoulders trembling slightly. "We found you in the Godswood," she murmurs, her gaze fixed on his face as if she thought she'd never had the chance to see it again. Her eyes are watery from the tears she's not shedding, her voice broken with emotions. "You were barely breathing. Arya and Jon helped me carry you here- I asked the Maester to do everything he could, but we weren't sure-".

He grasps her hand more firmly. He shakes his head, trying to wrap his mind around the thought - he'd been ready to _die_ , he'd welcome it even, just to let Bran live. He remember the deads, their bones crackling in the terrible silence all around them as he stands curved on his sword, knowing he was going to die and there was no other choice, no coming back, no running from this, not this time.

"Bran?" he manages to ask, his heart in his throat.

Sansa's mouth curves in a tender smile, and she breathes deeply and squeezes his hand, steeling herself again. "He's okay. We won, Theon. We won," she says, and he finally, after what it feels like a lifetime, he breathes out.

It hurts, and it feels like every nerve of his body is being lit on fire, but he breathes out all the same because Bran's alive and the night is over and they won, because it was desperate and foolish and absurd to hope, and yet, despite it all something incredible happened, and they're here, in this silent room, breathing and living, and it should be impossible but somehow it's not.

He has to swallow the tears down. "The Night King," he says, and he can almost _hear_ him, his steps, the sounds of his breath like ice cracking under his feet. "I tried to stop him, I did, I swear-"

Sansa tightens her grip on his hand again. "I know. You saved us, Theon," she whispers, her voice so soft and full of emotions. He shakes his head at her words, but she squeezes his hand again, almost forcefully. "You did. You bought us enough time for Arya to kill him".

Somehow, between the White Walkers and the dead and all the impossible things he's seen, this is the most absurd thought of them all. "Arya killed the Night King?" Sansa nods, quietly, and he tries to wrap his mind around the notion. He's surprised to realize he's not surprised _at all_. "Coming to think about it, it seems quite right, too".

Sansa smiles, pressing her lips together, as her eyes dart to their joined hands. "Of course it does," she replies, amused. Her eyes fall on his face again, and a tender smile tugs at her full lips, rendering him speechless. There's much fondness on her face he finds it hard to breathe, and when her thumb comes to brush against the back of his hand, gently tracing his veins, he shivers. "Remember that time when we were kids and she threatened to stab you in the leg with a spoon if you called her a lady again?"

Theon smiles too. He doesn't remember the last time he did, and it hurts, as if the muscles of his face had been frozen for a long time, but Sansa's eyes widen at the sight and he's never loved anything this much, with every ounce of his being. "The Night King never stood a chance".

The most impossible thing happens - Sansa _laughs_. It's deep and earth-shattering and beautiful all the same, and she throws her head back like she used to when they were kids, and he thinks he's witnessing a miracle.

He almost feels unworthy of it.

She laughs, and it's like the years had been stripped away from her, and she's young and hopeful again, with bright eyes and an easy smile, a tender heart that has not been bruised yet, and he loves her, he loves her, he loves her. It almost feels like he's stepping into a sacred moment, like a pilgrim stumbling into an old temple and coming face to face with a goddess.

Her shoulders tremble slightly, and he can tell the exact moment Sansa stops laughing and crumbles down, sobbing, a barely perceptible shift, were his senses not completely attuned to her. She tries her best to fight back the tears - but she can only fight so much, and he can tell she's tired of fighting, because she lets out a deep breath, as if stripping down of the armor she has fashioned herself into, and breaks down, taking her face into her hands and crying like a scared, lost kid.

It's a new instinct - to reach out for her, his hands searching for hers. Were this another moment, he wouldn't dare to touch her, but she's sobbing and he can't stomach the thought of leaving her alone, not right now. Every muscle in his body screams as he moves and the wound in his abdomen feels like he thinks wildfire would feel, but he doesn't let this stop him and scoots closer, folding his body around hers.

"Sansa," he whispers, so softly he wonders if she's heard him at all. His hands tremble as they reach for hers, but his fingers curve around her wrists all the same, and he brings her hands down. She lets him do it, and it breaks his heart, seeing her like this, red eyes and desperation written all over her face. It reminds him of another time, other tears, other bruises and he wants to erase it all, even the memory of it. "Sansa, what happened?"

At his words, her face breaks in a sad, rueful smile, and her face turns softer, as she stares at him as if somehow amused by his words. "I thought you died," she replies, simply.

Her voice is broken and laced with terror and hope and desperation all mixed together, and it all comes like a knife to his heart. It almost feels like he's being stabbed again, and though he knows there's no other wound, his gaze falls on his abdomen all the same, to the place where the Night King has impaled him.

She stares at his wounds too. He can hear her stifle a sob.

His voice trembles too, when he tries to speak. "Sansa-"

"I thought you died," she repeats, this time with a new fervor in her words, her hands gripping his so fiercely he wonders if he'll have bruises. She doesn't fight back the tears anymore, but still, she looks so strong - stronger than him, stronger than the whole of Winterfell, stronger than winter and darkness, and for a moment he thinks, _Winterfell has learned to endure from her_. "I had just found you. I had you back for just one day and I thought I had lost you again".

His thumb strokes the inside of her wrist. He can feel her heartbeat, the steady rhythm of it, and the way she shivers in his touch. He remembers a time in which she wouldn't let him touch her - and she was right, of course. He was Reek back then, a traitor and a murderer. His hands were covered in blood, his skin was a patchwork of scars, his face an altar to his mistakes. But now she trembles into his touch, and melts so easily, as fresh snow at the first rays of sun, and Theon caresses her skin, fingers as light as a feather, marveling at the fact he gets to do this.

His gaze falls on her face again, when he speaks. "It would have been a good death," he tells her, quietly, with all the surety he can muster. "More than I'd deserved, anyway".

But Sansa - sweet, unyielding Sansa - grips his hands and gives him a flash of that fierce, determined gaze he's learned to recognize as purely hers. "No," she says, quietly. The word is barely above a whisper, but it's so raw and intense, it comes barreling toward him like an arrow piercing his heart. "No. I didn't give you permission to die, Lord Theon. I didn't give you permission to _leave me_ ".

It feels like a tide, crashing on him and dragging him under. His breath is lost somewhere between his lungs and his lips, and though his whole body is burning and aching and screaming, the only thing he manages to focus on is the way Sansa looks at him, kind eyes and soft smile and tears on her cheeks, fondness written on the lines of her face. She looks at him the way he thinks queens look at their knights in the stories, and when her hand comes to brush against his cheek, cupping his face, it feels like she's pouring everything she can't or doesn't know how to say into that touch.

Theon can't believe it.

He's loved Sansa for what it feels like a lifetime. He doesn't remember when he realized it - maybe when they jumped from the walls of Winterfell and she offered him her hand, or maybe when they were running from Ramsay and she clinged to him, putting all of her trust and faith in him, or maybe when she whispered, so quietly and softly as she did everything else, a ghost in her own home, _Let me die while there's still something of me left_. Or maybe even before, when they were just kids, and he was an arrogant fool and she was a spoiled little princess and they barely talked at all and life was a lot simpler. All this time, all the things they went through together, all that sorrow and pain and desperate, unexpected loyalty - and he never thought that maybe, just maybe Sansa could love him back.

He doesn't know what to say.

"Sansa," he whispers, her name like a prayer on his lips. Her hand lingers on his face, her thumb stroking his cheekbone, and it feels like she's rewriting him, making him whole again, as if all those years never happened. But they did. "The things I've done…"

Her smile turns even softer. "You almost died to save us all," she replies, quietly. Her lashes brush against her cheekbones when she lowers her gaze to the place where the Night King pierced his armor and his organs, and she lets out a deep breath, before looking up at him again. "I think you have atoned enough for a lifetime".

He hasn't. He never will. _You're a good man,_  Bran has told him, but words mean nothing if he can't believe them.

He shudders in her touch. "You deserve-"

Sansa laughs again, shaking her head. "I've grown quite tired of men telling me what _I_ deserve," she murmurs, and a tentative, amused smile comes to tug at her lips, as her hand brushes away a few curls from his face. "I'm the Lady of Winterfell now, I reckon I can make my own choices." Then, a faint trace of red comes to dust her cheeks, and her smile turns hesitant, her fingers lingering against his skin as she adds, softly. "If you'll have me".

_Oh_. How can she even ask him that? She's Sansa and she's magnificent, the stuff of legends and stories, the kid he remembers from his childhood and the goddess he's staring at now. She put her arms around him and welcomed him home even when _home_ was a strange word that tasted bitter on his tongue. She gave his name and his life back, and he'd follow her to the edge of the world, he'd offer his life at her feet, he'd give her his heart if she gave the order - and yet, she asks him, as nervous as a maiden in those old songs, if he'll have her, as if he could ever say no.

His body aches as he moves, but he pays it no mind. His hand comes to brush against her face, trembling fingers tucking a strand of soft, red hair behind her ear, and then she sighs, her eyes fluttering shut when he caresses her cheek. Her skin is as fair as porcelain, as strong as steel.

He nods. "From this day until the end of my days".

Her eyes meet his, in the golden light of the candle, and they both know what it means. They don't need to say anything else - a glance is all it takes, for two people who've lived as ghosts for so many years.

It's soft and clumsy - her lips barely brush against his, and their bodies aren't quite at the right angle and every muscle in his body feels on fire, but it doesn't matter, because Sansa is kissing him, and she's _warm_ and _soft_ and _sweet_ , and it feels like finally coming home for the very first time. Her hands find their way to his face and her fingers trace his features as if she was trying to commit everything to her memory. But there's no rush - there's no battle to fight, no night to endure. There's only the two of them, the low light of a candle, the warmth of her body, the sweetness of her mouth, the way she breathes against his lips.

When she breaks away, she rests her forehead against his and the smile she gives him - bright and wonderful - takes his breath away. It reminds him of the kid she used to be.

He doesn't tell her he's probably broken beyond repair, and no amount of patience and kindness from her part could ever put the pieces back together. Sansa wouldn't listen to him - she's stubborn and determined and he doesn't envy the poor fools who'll ever dare to cross her. He's not the man he was before all of this happened - but, after all, she's not the same kid either. They've both been broken and recast into a different shape, and his scars somehow match hers, and if there's a person in this vast, terrible world who could ever understand him, then, of course it would be Sansa.

"You should rest, you're still weak," she murmurs, moving away from him. He falls back on the pile of cushions, his body slump and weary, the wound aching terribly. And still, he feels like he's been given a second chance at life - as if he'd been born again today, after all he's been through. "I'll stay here," she adds, nodding at the chair he remembers from his fevered dreams.

It takes both all his strength and courage to move his arm, but reaches for her all the same, closing his fingers around her delicate wrist. "Stay".

It's surprising to realize she can still be embarrassed after all that she's been through. It takes her a moment to understand what he means, and then her cheeks turn red as she lowers her gaze, and he knows it's not proper, he knows she'd deserve a proper courtship with flowers and tournaments and noble deeds, but they've both been through enough, and when Sansa finally climbs into bed, curling her warm body against his and chasing the darkness away with her presence, it feels right.

_What a strange, incredible world this is_ , he thinks.

"I spent so many years just waiting for death," he confesses against the place where her neck meets her shoulder, his lips pressed against her skin, her arms wrapped tightly around him. "I never thought there could be an afterwards. I don't know what to do now".

She breathes, so softly, her lips against his temple. "Now we live," she replies, as quietly as always, but in those words he can hear everything she's not saying. Everything they've faced, all the desperation and all that stubborn hope, all the pain and scars and torment - they can finally leave all of it behind. "I think we've earned this. Now, rest".

She presses a kiss to his temple, and it feels like absolution. This time, when the darkness claims him, it's not painful or terrifying, there's no hell waiting for him at the end of the night. It's easy and gentle, and the only thing he can feel is Sansa's arms wrapped around him, her body pressed against his, her warm hands resting on his back.

It feels safe, for the first time in years - he's home, after traveling for so long, and when he'll wake in the morning, it will be a new life, and he'll learn how to live it.

 


End file.
